


Under The Influence

by LoveMeSomeRafael



Category: Law & Order: SVU, law & order svu
Genre: F/M, Lust, NSFW, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveMeSomeRafael/pseuds/LoveMeSomeRafael
Summary: A Peter Stone one-shot.  Peter meets a fellow attorney working a case neither of them should be working on, and neither of them want to be.  But they are both struck by lightning the minute they meet.





	Under The Influence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mforpaul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mforpaul/gifts).

> I really like @mforpaul's present-tense writing style, so I thought I'd give it a try. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Peter Stone can’t believe his Monday morning is going to start with a garden-variety drunk driving arrest. He thought he’d graduated from these ten years ago. But when the suspect owns a major international oil conglomerate, D.A. Jack McCoy doesn’t want the news showing pictures of a junior-level A.D.A. handling the case. So Peter finds himself trying to drink his tall, double-shot, caramel macchiato with extra foam and run at the same time, because he’s late. 

Alyson Sanders’ heels were not made for walking the long, tiled halls of a police station. Truth be told, they weren’t made for walking at all. And Alyson has no business being _in_ a police station. Her last exposure to criminal law was as a first-year law student, and it was the last time she’d wanted to think about it. But Chester Palerisian had called her at an ungodly hour this morning, drunk as a skunk and demanding that she get him out of jail. So here she is. She should have had an associate handle this, and she would have, except that it’s Palerisian himself, and she just knows what she’ll have to listen to if he isn’t represented by someone whose name is on the door of the firm. Of course, having her name on the door of a firm that doesn’t do criminal law _should_ mean that she doesn’t have to deal with the drunken fuckery of an overbred clown like Chester Palerisian. But his ownership of CTP Oil, and its status as one of her firm’s most lucrative clients, means that she does.

Alyson walks up to the Desk Sergeant she’s been directed to, and asks to meet with her client. Then she waits, taking the opportunity to look around at the diverse and fascinating group of people waiting with her. She listens to the conversations she can overhear, trying to identify languages and intrigued by the dramas going on around her. She is almost sorry when the Desk Sergeant calls her and escorts her to an interview room.

The room has the standard one-way mirror, which shows that today’s wet fog has done Alyson’s hair no favors. She congratulates herself on going wavy and messy with her long blonde bob today, because that was how it was going to end up, anyway. There is also the standard long, metal table with scratches, dents, and metal loops for handcuffing suspects who threaten to get out of control. The room reeks of alcohol. To be precise, her client, sitting on one of the mismatched and battered chairs haphazardly surrounding the table in a suit that had cost several thousand dollars and was probably now beyond repair, reeks of alcohol. The minute he opens his mouth, it is clear he is still very, very drunk.

“Aly! Thank God. Get me the fuck out of here,” he says, standing as though she is just going to lead him out this minute. 

“That’s why I’m here, Chet. Are you all right?”

“Does this look all right to you? I’m in fucking _handcuffs_, for fuck’s sake! What am I, a _criminal_?”

Alyson is just annoyed enough to consider answering that question, but she hasn’t gotten to where she is by giving in to impulses. “All right, I just wanted to check on you before we talk to the cops. If you’re ready, I’ll let them in. And you are not going to say one word, all right? Let me do all the talking.”

“Fine, fine. I’m not stupid.”

On that wildly debatable note, Alyson suddenly realizes she has no idea how to summon whoever they need to meet with, presumably the cops and maybe an ADA. She puts her briefcase and purse down on the table to stall for time. Fortunately, very quickly thereafter, the door opens and tall, pretty man walks in, his very well-cut suit outlining what appears to be an insane body underneath. 

Peter will later thank God for muscle memory, because the minute he comes through the door and sees the defendant’s attorney, time stops. “I’m ADA Peter Stone,” he says automatically, holding out a hand, because that’s what he always does when he walks into this room. If Peter had to think his way through this moment, the beautiful blonde would be standing there holding his hand while he had feverish sexual fantasies about her for a very long time. His vision is actually fuzzy, which tells him that, in addition to the things happening lower down in his body, his eyes are already dilating with lust. He has never seen a better-looking woman in real life. 

Her hair looks as though it is doing exactly what she intended, although what it’s doing is making him picture himself doing things to her to get it gorgeously tousled like that. Her beautiful suit is tailored by a master, and her hand feels warm and soft and feminine and holy shit the dirty thoughts going through Peter’s head right this minute. She is wearing very small gold earrings, and he wants to nibble on them, for some reason. 

Peter is fortunate enough that the woman’s moronic client begins to speak at that moment, stirring the alcohol reek in the room and reminding him why he is here. 

“Well, _this_ is my lawyer, Alyson Sanders. Of Ogilvie, Sanders and… somebody else.” 

Alyson’s contemplation of the way the ADA is looking at her is interrupted, and she’s not happy about it. The man looks like he’s about to take a bite out of her, and she’s down with that plan. 

“Fishbach,” Alyson says, still holding Peter Stone’s hand and looking into his eyes. The voice that comes out is not her usual “meeting opposing counsel” voice.

“Hmmm?” Peter asks, not letting go of her hand, either.

“Fishbach. My other partner’s name. Jared Fishbach.” The blush of shame at such a stupid statement begins very low on Alyson’s chest and blooms, rapidly and hotly, up her body. 

“Right,” Peter says, realizing with a minute shake of his head that he needs to release her hand. “And your name is…”

“Aly. Alyson Sanders.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sanders,” Peter says, and shakes her hand again. Both notice at the same time that this is a bit redundant, but they still shake. They just laugh nervously as they do it, and drop their hands quickly. “Ogilvie, Sanders… I wasn’t aware your firm does criminal defense.”

“We don’t,” Alyson responds, grateful she knows this one. Her neurons are not working correctly. She notes, however, that her autonomic nervous system is humming along nicely, increasing her heart and respiratory rate and hardening her nipples, as well as dilating capillaries and stimulating lubrication. Because _damn_. The way this Peter Stone has just the very slightest lisp when he says her name should be at least a Class C Felony. _Don’t think about punishment, Aly. Don’t think about punishment. Client. Opposing counsel. Not spanking. Work mode._

“I guess I should explain,” she tries to fake coherence. “My firm represents Mr. Palerisian’s business interests. When he was arrested, he called me. I’ll be representing him for the time being, but I’m likely to be replaced at some point.”

“I see,” Peter answers, moving to sit down at the table in hopes she won’t notice that his legs are actually shaking. Also in hopes she won’t notice other things in the neighborhood of his legs that he is helpless to control now that he’s had a whiff of her perfume. He can’t remember the last time he had an involuntary hard on. “Well, I just need to ask your client some questions.”

“Right. I thought you might want to do that, but I’m afraid we’re not going to be answering any questions this morning. He’s been arrested, correct?”

“He has.”

“What are you charging him with?”

“Second offense aggravated DUI, felony assault, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and misdemeanor possession of marijuana.”

“What do we need to do to get him released?”

“He’s charged with 2 felonies and 3 misdemeanors. He can’t be released until he’s been arraigned, and even then he’ll only be released pending trial if the judge allows it.”

“That is bullshit!” Palerisian shouts, standing abruptly and basically falling onto the table, which fortunately is bolted to the floor. 

“Chet, I got this,” Alyson says, giving him a steadying hand to sit back down.

“Fuck that! I’m not staying here one more minute. I demand to see this guy’s supervisor!”

“Chet, ‘this guy’s supervisor’ is the District Attorney. He’s got better things to do. And you’re not in a position to demand anything. Let me do my job.”

“I want out of here!”

Alyson wants out of here, too, but she doesn’t yell it and kick her feet into the table leg like a three-year-old. Instead, she asks whether it would be possible for her and Mr. Stone to meet privately. She immediately regrets her choice of words, because it sounds very much like she’s asking for the _other_ thing she really wants right this minute.

“Of course,” Peter responds, standing up. He ignores Palerisian, who is making toddler noises and asking what’s happening, opens the door for Alyson and waves her into the hallway. 

He escorts her across the hall to a small meeting room. As she passes him, she purposely moves too close. She has to see if he smells as good as she thinks he will. Oh, holy fuck. He smells _better_. Without her consent, Alyson’s hypothalamus sends a signal to divert additional blood and energy to her autonomic nervous system. She really doesn’t need to be this turned on right now. She is a bit lightheaded – there’s only so much blood to go around, after all – so she sets her briefcase and purse on a chair and sits down at the battered little wooden table that dominates the tiny room.

“My client is…” She begins, faltering almost immediately.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

She smiles then, tilting her head with a twisted, wry grin. “A petulant, entitled asshat.”

“So stipulated,” he grins despite himself.

“Unfortunately, that’s not illegal. Prisons are overcrowded enough already. So let’s talk about his actual crime. Bail?”

“I can live with releasing him to you, but he surrenders his drivers’ license.”

Her face clouds over, just a little. Just enough that he knows she is letting him see it. “Yeah…”

“That’s a gift, Ms. Sanders.”

“Oh, I fully recognize that. You’re clearly a man willing to make deals. But I think that, in this case, maybe not as much of a gift as you’d think.”

“I won’t go ROR.”

“No. And I wouldn’t ask you to. I’m thinking more in the neighborhood of a reasonable bail.”

Peter looks at her with surprise. “Ms. Sanders, I was offering to release him to your recognizance. No bail.”

“Mr. Stone… Peter. May I call you Peter?”

“Of course.” _Call me Daddy. Call me anything the fuck you want. _

“I understand your offer. I just don’t accept it.”

“You understand that, if he has to bond out, it’ll cost him money. That’s not as good as the deal I’m offering.”

“Mr. Palerisian wouldn’t need a bail bond. He has the cash.” Her face holds an expectancy that tells him she is sending a message she’s not willing to put into words. Peter gets the message anyway.

“And you don’t want to be responsible for him. Maybe you also think he should have to go to the hassle of putting up his own money.”

“This is DUI number two, and he’s been well above .18 both times. Besides which, he’s an asshat whether he’s drunk or not. Frankly, if it didn’t mean having to deal with my partners’ whining, I’d fire him. Maybe if I can’t get him ROR’ed, I’ll get lucky and _he’ll_ fire _us_, instead.” Then, as if a switch has been flipped, Alyson sits a bit straighter and says mechanically, in a tone almost – but not quite – imitating robotic quoting of a statement that is not her own, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re suggesting I’m not advocating for the best deal for my client. That would be unethical.”

With a wide smile, Peter says, “Ms. Sanders – Alyson – you’re a tough negotiator. I don’t feel good about half a million dollars’ bail-“

“Don’t push it, Peter,” she tilts her head with a playful scowl.

“As I said, I don’t feel good about two hundred fifty thousand dollars bail…” He waits for her smile of agreement, then proceeds. “But you’ve twisted my arm.”

He reaches out his hand. She stands and shakes it firmly for the third time in under ten minutes.

“I’m sorry I had to be so rough on you.”

“Let me call, see if I can still get us on the arraignment calendar this morning.”

Alyson looks up at Peter from under her long eyelashes, muttering, “Don’t push too hard. A night in jail might do him good.”

He stops with his phone in his hand, just about to touch the screen. “It’s usually fairly difficult to get a last-minute addition to the arraignment calendar.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with an obviously faux chagrin, and puts his phone back into his inside jacket pocket. “I did everything I could.”

“I appreciate the professional courtesy.” They stand there, grinning conspiratorially at one another. “Once he sobers up, I’ll talk to my client and see if he’s open to a plea deal.”

“Who says I’m offering one?”

“Well, I’ve heard you are sort of a hardass. You might not. I’ll make sure he knows that. But, just in case, I’ll see what he’d be willing to accept.”

“I’ll see you at the arraignment tomorrow morning.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Peter can’t concentrate on the scumbags today. He needs to, and he needs to ride herd on all the Junior ADAs he’s responsible for, but for the life of him he can’t clear his mind of the picture of Alyson Sanders walking away from him down the hallway at the police station. He wants to find the person who tailored that skirt to fit her bum like that and shake their hand. Or perhaps punch them in the throat, because that picture is not helping him get shit done today. He wonders what she’ll wear to the arraignment tomorrow morning, and hopes like hell she won’t be replaced by then. Peter has no desire to see Randolph Dworkin in a tight, ass-hugging skirt. 

*****************  
The gods smile on Peter Stone and he sees Alyson Sanders sashay into the courthouse wearing another beautiful suit. He gets one look at the skirt and knows this will be the second day in a row shot to hell. She has an eager young man walking beside her, legs twice as long as hers but still running to keep up with her in her heels, and she is listening attentively to what he has to say. Peter recognizes him now; he worked for Peter until about six months ago, when he quit to go where the money is. Alyson’s eyes light up when she sees Peter and the smile she gives him wakes his cock up for the day. 

After another handshake that goes on a beat too long, Alyson asks Peter whether he remembers whatever the kid’s name is. Peter remembers him, and instantly forgets his name again. The kid is there to give Alyson a crash course in arraignments, which aren’t rocket science, and she and Peter already have a deal. Still, Peter admires her preparation. He imagines she doesn’t like being out of her depth any more than Peter himself does. 

“I’m going to need to get in there in a moment, and I don’t know when they’ll call Palerisian’s case. So I may not have a chance to talk to you again this morning,” Peter explains to Alyson. “I also have a crowded day, but we need to talk about what we’re going to do with your client. Are you, by any chance, available to have dinner with me tonight?” He hopes he got the inflection and expression just right, like he couldn’t give a shit, even though if she says no and he doesn’t get to peel off that skirt, he might just cry through the entire arraignment docket.

“I can probably do drinks, but dinner would be tough.”

“I see. You have another engagement.”

“No, I…” What Aly means is that she can probably keep her hands off of Peter Stone for the time it would take to have a drink, but knows herself to be entirely unequal to the task of behaving appropriately through a whole dinner. But that’s probably too much information at this point, especially in front of her young associate. “I meant that I had to reschedule some things to be here today, which means I have some catching up to do.”

Alyson actually has a dinner engagement with a potential new client, which she would be insane to miss. They’re a major retail chain just beginning to move into the online marketplace about five years after they should have. There is serious money to be made here, and quickly. But the dinner is small, the only guests being the owner, the Chairman of the Board, and the CEO, which means she has options. The weather has been unseasonably warm for fall, and the firm has a lovely boat for exactly this purpose. She’ll spend several thousand extra dollars this way, but Peter Stone would be worth it if she had to add an extra zero to that. Maybe two. She’ll decide when she gets his shirt off. In the meantime, she tells herself the first call she makes after the arraignment needs to be to her assistant, to get the dinner moved to later in the week, with the excuse that she thought her guests might like to take advantage of the lovely weather with a dinner cruise around Manhattan on the boat. Self-important business types eat that shit up. It’ll be fine. And she doesn’t give fuck one even if it isn’t. 

“I’ll tell you what, Peter.” She likes the taste of his name on her tongue, and he can see that. “Let’s plan on drinks, and I’ll see if I can make dinner work. Let me know when and where.”  
Peter nods as though she’s just agreed to do nothing more interesting than rotate the tires on his car. “I’ll see you in there,” he says, turning and entering the courtroom.

Stone doesn’t want to be meeting Alyson Sanders for drinks tonight. Oh, he _does_, heaven knows he does, but he also doesn’t. He’s done with women. After the hideous demise of his long-term relationship with Angelica, he has stuck to men. Women are just too … Well, they’re too everything. Absolutely not worth the trouble. He prefers women, if he had to choose, but lucky for him, no one is asking him to. Men are so much easier – the most they ask is that he buy them dinner first, and even that doesn’t happen much. Mostly they just want what he wants – a few laughs over drinks, a good fuck, and that’s it.

Which is why it’s kind of a step backward to have drinks with Alyson Sanders. Maybe she’ll turn out to be the rare woman who will just have sex with him and then leave him alone – which is very much all he wants from her. He’s going to run for the nearest hot guy if things start to go any differently with her. True, he wants her more than he’s wanted anyone in a very long time, but she is still a woman, after all, and therefore almost certain to annoy and frustrate him in the end. But he’s stuck now, he made the date himself, and his dick has been looking forward to it ever since. Peter does his dick’s bidding much more often than he wishes he did.

The arraignment is a snooze, as expected, except for the part where Alyson stands a few feet away from him. Judge Smithson, a woman of a certain age, insists on keeping her courtroom at a balmy sixty degrees in all seasons, and apparently Alyson finds that a bit chilly. Or at least her nipples do. Peter finds himself in the unenviable position of standing in front of a full courtroom trying to ignore the turmoil happening in his boxers. He’s had dreams like this. They were not good dreams.

He texts Alyson Sanders sometime in the early afternoon. Actually, he texts Alyson Sanders at precisely one in the afternoon on the dot, because that is the time he has decided will be early enough, but not so early that it looks like he’s eager. 

Peter meets Alyson at Geraldo’s, where meets all his first dates. It’s small enough so they can hear each other talk, the bartenders know him and will send him an emergency text to get him out of a bad situation if he signals them, and it’s just around the corner from a fairly cheap parking garage for quick getaways. He’s early so that he can choose where they will sit. He chooses a small booth with room for only two people, one on each side of the table. It’s a good strategic first-date choice, for many reasons, not least of which is that he can sit forward and get close to his date, especially if it’s a guy with long legs, or he can sit back and put distance between them. 

When Alyson breezes in, he notes that she waves to one of the bartenders. He is annoyed at her knowing the bartenders like he does, because he likes to be one up on everyone in all situations. His annoyance only lasts long enough for Alyson to slide into the booth across from him and announce that he’s chosen the bar well. Her firm has an account here, and since she and Peter are working on Palerisian’s criminal case together, drinks are on Palerisian tonight. He can’t help liking that Alyson Sanders has a bit of an edge to her. And he is struck anew by how beautiful she is. It’s not a conventional, fashion-model sort of beauty, exactly, although she certainly has that. What gets to Peter is a certain swagger and sass she has that are evident even when she is standing still, and a look in her eye as though she’s up for anything. Sassy women who are up for anything are Peter’s kryptonite, and he knows it.

“I’m a little surprised you’re so willing to piss off an important client,” he notes. 

“I’ve been really fortunate,” she says sincerely. “I had some success early on, which allowed me to start my own firm fairly young, and we’ve worked really hard. These days, we’re blessed with a number of important clients and it lets me worry less about losing one. Not my partners, however, who act like we’re all going to be homeless anytime we lose a motion. It’s a good balance, actually. They keep my baser instincts in line, and I keep them from getting trampled by bully clients.”

“Sounds like a good partnership,” he says. She’s being modest. He’s done his research. Her firm bills eight figures annually, and it’s primarily because Alyson Sanders is a giant-killer. She’s won a number of huge cases, including several against the feds. She personally does less litigation now that she heads a team of over forty corporate and tax lawyers. She bills four figures an hour and still her firm has clients begging her to take them on. She’s also been very wise in her choice of partners, both of whom are as gifted as she is.

“It’s a very good partnership, as much as we bitch about each other.”

The waitress comes over with a cocktail for Alyson and asks whether Peter is ready for another. He says no. Drinking less than the other person is another way he likes to keep the upper hand. 

“Your appetizers will be out very shortly,” the waitress says, deferential to Peter, but even more so to Alyson. 

Alyson gives Peter a smile that he is unable to avoid returning. “Calamari, oysters on the half-shell, fried zucchini, and some more stuff I can’t remember. The appetizers here are great, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Now Peter’s even more conflicted. On top of being seriously attractive, this woman is also an eater. Peter likes a woman with an appetite. Shit. This new development is good from his dick’s point of view (also his stomach’s – he’s hungry), but from a “not dating women anymore” perspective, it’s kind of a problem. He pushes the thought aside. It’s very, very early. She’ll say or do something to cool the attraction anytime now. 

Alyson wonders whether they oysters were a bit much. They come with the platter she ordered, and it’s the one she _always_ orders, but he doesn’t know that. And damn it, she wants to make a good impression. Not nearly as much as she wants to tear his clothes off and see if the raunchy fantasies that have plagued her all day match the reality, but still, she was very impressed by him in court and she’s done a little research. Peter Stone is one hell of a prosecutor. Well on his way to becoming District Attorney someday. Not that she’s particularly impressed by titles, but she is very impressed by talent. And he has it.

He can see that she is thinking about him, and if the glow under her skin is any indication, her thoughts are good ones. In no time, Peter is back to the level of arousal he was at this morning, only now there’s alcohol and opportunities. He leans forward to clink glasses with her. “To new acquaintances.”

Alyson toasts with him and takes a drink. When she’s done, she sits forward and takes off her suit jacket. It’s a fitted, tweedy suit with leather accents that is lovely, but she’s suddenly feeling warm. She seems to recall feeling a bit of a hot flash this morning when she saw Peter Stone, too, before entering the arctic chill of the courtroom. He smiles, mutters something about removing jackets being a good idea, then removes his, as well. There’s a hook for their jackets on the outside of their booth and Peter graciously hangs Alyson’s jacket up for her, along with his own. This gives her the opportunity to check out his body under the shirt, and suddenly she realizes removing their jackets is not going to be anywhere near enough. Her libido ratchets up several notches and she begins to think she doesn’t have the patience to be social. She wonders what he would do if she just straight-up propositioned him. She empties her glass at the same time he does. 

A few minutes and a bit of superficial conversation later, the appetizers arrive and they order their second drinks. Peter’s leg makes contact with Alyson’s. He doesn’t move it. She grins and he doesn’t know whether it’s because of what he’s just said, or because their legs are touching. The way she eats oysters borders on obscene. He’s mesmerized. He thinks about trying to do it, but is certain he’ll end up with a red face and a dry-cleaning bill. She’s interested in him. She leans in and asks questions about what he’s telling her. She also laughs at his jokes, which always seems to inspire him. Even he thinks he’s being fairly witty. This is good. He’s definitely going to invite her back to his place and do all the things he’s been imagining, and he has no doubt she will accept, especially since there is some fairly intimate leg-pressing going on now. He’s hard, and he’s not alone; her blouse is giving him his second glimpse of her nipples today and holy crap he wants to rip that thin fabric off and just get to it. By the time the appetizers are worked over and their drinks about gone, Peter is feeling a very nice glow that is part bourbon, part lust. It’s a good combination, and it affects the risk/benefit calculations going on in his head about how to approach making a pass.

Alyson has imbibed two cocktails, and she drank them a little more quickly than she normally would, because Peter’s hazel green eyes and that little lisp are really getting to her. Since she met him about thirty-six hours ago, she’s been horny for him - sometimes more, sometimes less, but never not – and at this moment, she hits the limit of her ability to resist him. She makes a motion to the waitress across the bar and holds her glass out to Peter. There is one swallow left in the bottom. His is about the same. 

“What are we drinking to?” He asks, very successfully trying to smolder.

“Elevators.”

“Really. Why elevators?”

“Because my apartment is at the top of this building, which means all that’s standing between us and my bed is an elevator.” Her grin is almost as lascivious as the way she eats oysters. 

Peter clinks her glass and turns up the smolder. “To elevators, then. _Sláinte_.” 

Shit. He likes women who make the first move, too. Especially when they’re that straightforward about it. He wonders how obvious it will be when he carries his jacket in front of his crotch. Maybe she will be lousy in bed. Not that he wants her to be lousy in bed, he just needs her to give him something to work with so that he can keep his usual distance. So far, she’s not been cooperating. The waitress brings a bill, Alyson signs it, and they scoot out from the booth. Peter would love to hold Alyson’s jacket for her to put it on, but he fears that, if he does, he’s going to make the 6 O’clock news. Or at least YouTube. Alyson notices what he’s hiding and she slides a hand down his chest, winking. 

“Me, too,” she whispers. She is shaking. _Shaking_, she’s so hot for him.

Peter thinks he might have to pull the emergency button on the elevator. He knows he could come from a stray breeze right now, so he’s sure he can get off and think of a good story before the fire department arrives to rescue them. Besides, any male firefighters are going to take one look at Alyson and be completely on his side. 

No such luck. Peter hadn’t thought about it, all he cared about was the bar, but this is a primarily residential building. So he and Alyson are sharing the elevator with an elderly Chinese woman with approximately seventeen shopping bags, along with two teenagers who are theoretically speaking English, although Peter has no earthly idea what they’re saying. There is also a young woman pushing a basset hound in a stroller. The basset hound needs a bath. It helps Peter regain a touch of his composure as they ride up. 

Alyson’s apartment is one of three on the top floor. Peter’s a little humbled by the elegance and size of the space. The view is impressive, even for a life-long New Yorker like Peter. Peter has a great job, but working for the County of New York, he’s never going to make this kind of money no matter how high he rises. She gives him a few moments to look around, apparently used to this. When he turns from the wall of windows, she’s just sitting on the arm of a couch, waiting. She smiles at him. 

“I know you get this all the time, but you are fucking gorgeous,” she says. While he’s been admiring her view, she’s been admiring _his_. 

It’s the first F-bomb she’s dropped, and he’s delighted. “So here’s my dilemma,” he says, walking toward her in what he hopes is a measured way rather than running to her like the basset hound on the elevator, which is what he’s doing in his mind. “If I tell you how beautiful I think you are, it’s going to sound like I’m just returning the compliment.”

Her smile brightens as she gives just the hint of a giggle. “Well, you’ve had a bit of luck there,” she says, palming his crotch as he reaches her and she stands to meet him. “I believe this is what we in the law call ‘evidence’.” 

Their first kiss is like most first kisses: awkward, not quite right, with imperfect aim and a little bit of nose mashing. But they’re experienced and they get better fast. Alyson is quickly all hands. Peter’s trying to kiss with some finesse, and she seems to really like what he’s doing judging by her breathing, but she’s touching and stroking and squeezing him everywhere at once. Something about that makes Peter feel very good. Well, sure, it _feels_ good, but it also feeds his ego and lets him know he hasn’t been imagining the appraising looks she’s been giving him. 

He tastes like bourbon, with a slight hint of the appetizers they’d shared. He’s delicious, but that’s no surprise. The surprise is just how _thoroughly_ he’s kissing her. Firm, in control, the exact right amount of wetness, so far just the slightest tease of tongue… Oh, this guy can _kiss_.

He slides her jacket off her shoulders, trying to be careful but also trying to slow himself down. It’s not easy. He’s had a raging hard on for the last half hour, and she’s starting to make noises. Peter is aroused by the sounds his lovers make, letting him know they’re enjoying what he’s doing. Alyson pulls her arms quickly out of the jacket and starts on his tie. She loosens the knot only enough to slide it over his head, then tosses it onto the couch behind her. Their kisses get messy as she divides her attention between his mouth and his buttons, and when she thinks she has enough buttons undone, she just pushes his shirt up his chest. 

“Holy shit,” she breathes, getting her first look at his bare torso. The beauty she expected is nothing to the reality. This man is a work of art. She’s not looking for love at this point, but damn, if she was, this chest would be a good place to start. She regrets skipping Pilates on Tuesday. Not that one class with Gunther would make her look like this; pretty much anyone is going to look soft and flabby next to this man. She cannot _wait_ to see his ass.

She gives a frustrated grunt as she realizes she has forgotten the buttons on his sleeves, but together they fumble through that and he is finally, blessedly, shirtless. Kissing is forgotten for the moment. The look in her eyes has Peter pulling at her blouse now, but she’s not helping. She’s not resisting by any stretch, but she’s very busy feasting her eyes on the dirty dream of a man undressing her in her living room, and she’s preoccupied. 

He gets her blouse off somehow, a little concerned that a couple of buttons may have been lost in the process, but she doesn’t seem to care so he certainly doesn’t. Besides, she’s begun to work on his belt and he doesn’t want to distract her. He strokes her shoulders and arms and closes his eyes while she starts running her face all over his chest. It couldn’t really be called kissing, because although there’s a lot of kissing involved, there’s also a lot of tasting and smelling and nuzzling. And appreciative noises. 

Belt undone, Alyson takes a little longer to undo Peter’s slacks, but only because she’s distracted by his abs. She is going to run her tongue along them, but that will have to wait until after she gets him inside her because she is on _fire_ and she could come just from looking at him. She hopes he doesn’t mind the artlessness with which she yanks his pants, socks, and shoes off. 

Holy flying balls of shit his cock is gorgeous. Cocks are not, as a rule, particularly aesthetically pleasing appendages, but Alyson has just discovered that Peter Stone’s penis is as beautiful as the rest of his body. It’s perfect. It fits him; large and strong and hard and stunningly attractive. She’s mesmerized. Just as a few moments ago, she was distracted by his beautiful chest, and then his abs, now it’s his penis. She runs her hands along its length, awed, trying to find words to describe how well-shaped it is, with the exact right amount of veining, and a hot rosy pink color rather than the angry red some guys are, that she tries to ignore when she sees it. Can you compliment a man on his lovely penis? 

She doesn’t get the chance, because suddenly he’s all over her skirt and it’s off before she really has time to drag her mind back from his cock. He makes the most wonderful noise – a gasp with a moan behind it – when he sees the lingerie and thigh-high stockings she purposely chose this morning in hopes he’d see them tonight. He doesn’t so much lay her down on the couch as throw her there. Fine by her. She would’ve jumped if he’d asked her to. She keeps her heels on. 

He kneels next to the couch and suddenly, it’s him who is all hands and mouth, gliding his hands up her thighs and mouthing her breasts through the soft, satiny and barely functional bra designed for pretty much exactly that. She’s lost the ability to monitor or control the sounds she’s making. His huge hands have her entire attention, or at least the part that isn’t laser focused on his soft biting at her nipples through the slippery cups of her bra. 

Peter kisses his way to the top of Alyson’s breasts so that he can flick his tongue under the cups. He wants to hear the noise she’ll make, and he isn’t disappointed. He hopes the hot drops rubbing from his cock onto her couch won’t be a problem – the couch is white. But he has much more important concerns at the moment, like whether to slide his fingers underneath the satin of her barely pink panties, or tease her through them first. He decides that the latter is the way to go, and at last touches her where he’s wanted to since the second he saw her the previous morning. The panties are soaked. Drenched. He can feel moistness on the inside of her thighs, even. Oh, this is good. Very, very good. 

As soon as he touches her through the thin, wet fabric, she moans and begins to lift into his touch. She moves against his fingers, one hand splayed in his hair as he licks her nipples under her bra, and the other firmly grasping his ass. She knows she’s being selfish, but she’s beyond caring about anything but the way he is making her feel. It’s starting to drive her crazy that he won’t take her lingerie off. She wants him to touch her everywhere. Of course, he knows that and he’s doing this on purpose, the bastard. She tries to make a mental note to do it back to him, but her entire blood supply is shunted far away from her brain. 

“Tell me when you’re close,” he says, looking into her eyes, pupils huge and lids heavy. “I’ll decide when to make you come.” He’s smiling evilly, and it is an absolutely outstanding look on him.

She can only moan and nod vaguely. He rewards her by slipping a finger under her panties and beginning to stroke the wet folds there. 

“Oh, Peter, that feels so good, you’re so…” She slides her hand around from his buttock to grasp his pretty cock. “I want you…”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to tear my panties off and fuck me. Now.”

He smiles and mercifully slides a finger inside her. She arches her back and cries out, immediately beginning to rock into it. He leans over and begins to kiss her again, slowly and deeply, with a great deal of tongue, while he slides his finger in and out of her, enjoying her wanton, increasingly desperate response. 

“More,” she begs.

She’s surprised – in a very good way – when he grants her request and slides another finger inside her and softly touches her clit with his thumb, coating her with her own moisture and rubbing lightly. She still has his cock in her hand, but her stroking is haphazard because she has too many sensations to focus on. 

“Peter!” She cries. “Oh, fuck!”

“Don’t come,” he murmurs. 

“I don’t– I can’t-“

He continues to use his fingers, allowing her to fuck herself on them and increasing his thrust slightly, but stops rubbing her clit with his thumb. Soon, his fingers slow.

“No…”_

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks with just the hint of a smirk.

“Yes! Oh, yes, I want you.” Her breathlessness makes it hard to speak.

“Then sit up.”

She does. He somehow manages to be aggressive and gentle at the same time as he unclasps and pulls her pretty bra from her. He sits next to her on the couch, then pulls her up so that she is standing before him. She’s fairly dizzy with lust, and he keeps an eye on her as he pulls her panties quickly down and off, leaving her thigh-high stockings where they are. He reaches behind her to the floor where his pants are, and fumbles his wallet out of a pocket. 

She stands naked but for her heels and the stockings while he pulls a condom from his wallet. She takes it from him and knees down between his knees, tearing the packet with her teeth. There is a lot of eye contact. There is a lot of smiling. She leans in and takes him in her mouth for a moment, holding the condom between her fingers. She nearly loses her concentration when she begins to taste and feel that beautiful penis between her lips, but she is too desperate for release, and so is he. 

“Put it on,” he groans between gritted teeth. She does, stroking him and kissing the insides of his thighs.

He immediately pulls her up, guiding her onto his lap until she is straddling him, on her knees. With his hands on her hips, both of them watching what she is doing, she takes his cock into her hand and guides him to her entrance, then pushes roughly down on him. Both of them cry out with pleasure, Peter’s cry a series of curse words Alyson hasn’t heard in that particular order before. 

Her arms naturally encircle his neck and shoulders, and she begins to kiss him as though she’s missed him. His lips, the way he moves his mouth on hers, could easily become… Well, this is about sex. She refocuses, which isn’t hard because she is very, very close.

“Peter, you’re going to make me come…”

“Now, Aly. Come now.” He puts a hand on her backside and rolls his hips into her. On her knees, she can move her pelvis against him, and his pretty cock is about as much as she can take, so within the next several thrusts, she begins to feel the inevitable wave of pleasure start to roll through her, from somewhere deep inside, gaining momentum as it makes its way toward the surface. She pulls away from his lips and throws her head back, her groans almost grunts as she explodes, grinding against him and rolling her hips. 

He watches her face, her flushed chest, her breasts bouncing lightly with her movements. This is a woman who knows how to ride an orgasm. And she looks like a fucking goddess doing it. So good, in fact, that he is already coming before he really realizes it. Soon he is lost to himself, jutting his hips into her and shouting. 

It takes a very long time to come down for both of them. They’re gasping for breath. She needs to get off of him so he can remove the condom, but damn she doesn’t want to. Eventually, however, she resigns herself and lifts herself off of his lap. She stretches and arches her back while he goes into the powder room. 

Alyson looks around. There are clothes in a wide semicircle around the couch. It’s kind of fabulous, actually, like a modern art piece. Peter catches his face in the mirror of the powder room. He looks fucked out. He _is_ fucked out.

But Alyson is not done with Peter Stone. Oh, hell, no. When he saunters back into the room – he usually struts, and he does it very, very well, but apparently post-coitally, he saunters – she takes his hand and leads him into her bedroom. He makes no comment or protest as she yanks the covers down and climbs in, holding her arms out to him. 

Post-sex cuddling with Peter Stone could cure cancer, bring about world peace and end famine. Alyson is sure of it. Nothing could possibly be wrong in life when this gloriously handsome male sprawled naked in your bed and put his powerful, sturdy arms around you. Actually, she realizes, this is not post-sex cuddling, but intra-sex cuddling, because Alyson plans to have Peter at least twice more before she lets him out of her apartment. It’s time to do that ab licking she’d planned earlier, so Alyson begins lazily stroking Peter’s chest.

Peter is fairly hormone-muddled at the moment, but he realizes that this is an extraordinarily comfortable bed. He also realizes that Alyson has not turned out to be lousy in bed – or on the couch, as the case may be – so he is going to have to find something else to dislike about her. But right now, she is worshiping his body, which he kind of can’t dislike, so he’ll have to think about that tomorrow. Or the next day.


End file.
